‘Drew of the Dyrewood it is,’ Drew replied smiling. ‘Welcome to my kingdom!’
Their conversation was interrupted by a voice.
‘Who goes there?’
Six hooded figures stepped out of the darkness on either side of the road, three on each side of them. Drew reached for the sword, but had second thoughts. Making a move against one man was dangerous enough. Inviting combat with six was a death wish.
Each man was dressed in woodland green cloaks, with heavy cowled hoods that concealed their faces. Beneath the cloak trim Drew could make out brown leather armour that was studded with metal. Even in the half-light, Drew spied that five of the men had longbows to hand, arrows drawn and pointing at the boys. Instinctively Drew put his hands in the air. Whitley didn’t.
‘Well met, sir,’ said the scout’s apprentice, addressing the figure who’d spoken. ‘My master has been terribly wounded and we’re trying to get him safely back to Brackenholme.’ He nodded towards Hogan, who sat still on the horse. ‘Please, you must help. He’s gravely ill and I don’t know what to do with him.’
The men relaxed their bows and rushed forward to the party. Two of them helped the old scout down from the horse as Whitley continued to explain their predicament. Half of the contents of Hogan’s saddlebags spilled to the floor with him, his heels still tied to the leather. Drew watched on, his hands now lowered but still wary of the men as they lay Hogan on the floor gently.
‘Wyldermen attacked us,’ Whitley explained. ‘With arrows, poisoned I believe. I only hope you can save him.’
The man who had challenged them helped rearrange the scout’s saddlebags, gathering up the personal effects from the road.
‘Don’t worry. You’ve done exactly as anyone would have. You may just have saved his life.’ He picked up the scout’s journal and thumbed through it briefly. ‘The Wyldermen are well known for using poison on their arrowheads. You’re lucky they didn’t nick you while they were at it.’
Drew sidled up to Whitley, whispering to him, ‘Looks like you’re all right here with these men,’ he said. ‘I should get going, now that you’re safe.’
‘Of course,’ said Whitley, shaking hands with his friend. ‘And thank you. For everything. I owe you my life, remember? Look after yourself on the road. That is, if I can’t persuade you to stay?’
‘No, thanks and all,’ said Drew. ‘It’s been good to meet you and even better to travel with you, but I should be going.’ He gave the other boy a hug and patted his back. All the while he watched the soldiers, but they seemed more concerned with Hogan and his condition. He wanted to leave quickly and quietly and with a minimum of fuss. ‘Take care, Whitley,’ he whispered. ‘Take care.’
‘You too, Drew of the Dyrewood,’ Whitley replied.
Drew turned to walk away.
‘Young man,’ said the soldier who spoke on behalf of the others, his voice clear and loud. ‘If you’d like to hold it right there, I have some questions for you.’
Drew cursed under his breath, stopping in his tracks. He didn’t turn.
‘I won’t be able to assist you, sir,’ he called back. ‘I was just helping your folk get home, that’s all. Can I go now?’
‘No, lad, you can’t,’ replied the soldier. ‘But you can turn round slowly.’
Drew felt that familiar dryness in his throat. What now? He turned on his heels to face the men.
Three of the men had their bows trained on him. Two of them finished seeing to Hogan and hoisted him back on to Chancer. Whitley looked on slack jawed as the soldier standing beside him glanced up from the scout’s journal.
‘And while we’re at it, lad, you might want to drop that sword and pop on these handcuffs.’ He threw a pair of solid steel manacles on to the forest floor at Drew’s feet. He held up Hogan’s notebook. ‘The old man was right. Duke Bergan is most certainly going to want to meet you.’
6
Caged
Drew had been right about one thing; he’d got Whitley and Master Hogan to Brackenholme before midnight. But, surrounded by the four walls of a prison cell, it didn’t seem quite the triumph that it should have been. Sitting on the bunk cross-legged, he contemplated his arrival in the city.
The men whom they’d encountered on the Dymling Road yesterday evening had turned out to be the Woodland Watch. He’d gathered that they were a part of the City Watch, although their territory included the surrounding forest within twenty leagues of Brackenholme. Despite the initial impression of just six men, Drew had gleaned that there were some three hundred of them in all, a small army.
The groups, like those they’d come across, were known as a ‘branch’, with five soldiers and one captain in command. His name had been Harker, and when all was taken into account Drew reckoned the man had been pretty fair with him. As his prisoner, Harker had allowed Drew to talk while he walked, had even allowed him to converse with Whitley, but always with the big captain within earshot.
Harker was about six foot tall, and lean rather than muscular. When he’d dropped his hood to read the stars that night, he’d revealed a mop of curly black hair that was tied away from his brow in a thick braid. His face was dark and leathery, a similar complexion to Hogan’s and no doubt also achieved by a life outdoors. The longbows weren’t the only weapons the men had carried. Harker had a broadsword hanging from a scabbard on his weapon belt, with a leather loop on the opposite hip providing a resting place for Drew’s Wolfshead blade.
Although the captain had been holding Drew captive, the young man couldn’t help but warm to him. Though maybe ‘respect him’ would have been more appropriate. Whatever the captain had read in the scout’s journal had obviously given him reason enough to have Drew clapped in irons, but that was where any show of force had ended. The soldier had tried repeatedly to extract information from Drew by conversation, to no effect. At no point in time did Whitley mention Drew’s monstrous appearance the other night. Judging by the looks and line of questioning the sergeant had taken with Drew he’d suspected Harker already knew as much. He’d have given his eye teeth to know what Hogan had written in that journal.
Harker had taken Whitley to one side and had talked at length with the scout’s apprentice. Once the captain had recognized that the scout in question was Hogan he’d gone out of his way to be as accommodating to Whitley as possible. Drew had figured that the scout was well liked by the Woodland Watch if they treated the man’s apprentice so generously. Whatever the two had discussed it had been out of Drew’s earshot, but he could only pray that Whitley held some kind of influence that might help him. After all, the boy’s father worked in the court with Duke Bergan so there was hopefully something he could do. Indeed, their exchange had become quite animated as they’d discussed the prisoner, Whitley standing his ground with the captain as the two debated how they would proceed to Brackenholme. Drew had surmised that the captain was concerned about Whitley’s safety and proximity to the prisoner, but it had been clear that the apprentice was going to get his way. If Drew hadn’t been too exhausted to be sure, he could have sworn he’d seen Harker bow in agreement.
They’d trudged on for what must have been a further three hours that night, with both boys in the middle of the marching order, again alongside Chancer. Harker had walked at Drew’s shoulder while three men stayed up front and the remaining two kept up the rear. Compared to the pace that Drew and Whitley had been keeping, which the boys had felt was pretty intense, this had been even tougher, with the men jogging at times to quicken the pace. If Whitley hadn’t been fit before this journey into the woods, then he was certainly getting in shape now, Drew had reckoned.
The first hint they’d had that they were nearing Brackenholme was twinkling lights in the depths of the woods. They’d come from homes, Drew had surmised, dotted around the feet of the great trees. The trees themselves were considerably larger here too, he’d noticed. The regular trees they’d passed were dwarfed now by enormous behemoths with trunks that must have been ten to
twenty paces round the base. Lights had occasionally flickered in their treetops, and with a sudden realization Drew had figured out there were guard posts up there.
Soon the road had shifted from being a dirt track into rocky paving beneath their feet, great slabs of puckered, yellowed stone that bore the scars of passage and time. The Dymling Road had broken from the cover of the Dyrewood eventually, where a meadow of bracken had stretched out before them. Although it had been the dead of night Drew was in no doubt that he was entering a realm more fantastic than any of his wildest imaginings. Not one tree had risen from this enormous field, the inhabitants of Brackenholme clearly taking great effort to keep the outskirts of their woodland city clear. All the better to view an oncoming attack, if any fool felt so bold as to attack Duke Bergan’s home. Drew’s education covered little detail of the world outside of his immediate surroundings on the Cold Coast, beyond his parents’ occasional reminiscing about their past in the old king’s service. But he’d known that any territory in Lyssia was hard fought, and the precautions in Brackenholme made that clear for all to see.
The travelling party had kept apace until, as if some great beast loomed before them, an enormous wooden palisade wall had emerged out of the darkness and shadows. Drew had reckoned the walls were maybe fifty, sixty feet high, with enormous tree-trunk stakes driven deep into the earth. Immovable. Impenetrable. High up, guards walked the battlements and their voices had suddenly become audible from below as they peered down and shouted instructions.
A pair of tall wooden gates had opened slowly before the group as they’d approached, the mechanical grinding of cogs and the creaking of pulleys accompanying their motion. A pair of soldiers holding lanterns and pikes had stood to either side of the gates as the party passed through, Harker’s branch exchanging a few words and nods with them as they’d strode on. Drew had noticed that the City Watch wore a different uniform; instead of the long green cloaks of the Woodland Watch, they favoured lighter green capes that hung from the shoulders. Again, studded leather armour had been visible beneath. If he’d been a visitor rather than a prisoner, he might have marvelled at how splendid they looked. The street ahead was lit by lanterns that sat atop tall posts, the Dymling Road still keeping its path true and straight. Small one- or two-storey buildings had lined either side of the road, but they were quite unremarkable compared with what else Brackenholme had to offer.
Drew had counted five Great Trees that sat within the walls of the City, visible at night thanks to the lights that were dotted all over their trunks and suspended high up within their boughs. What starlight had managed to creep through the heavy clouds overhead revealed their silhouettes. Great wasn’t really the word for it – these were gargantuan oaks. Drew had felt the dig of a soldier’s palm in the small of his back as he’d realized he’d stopped to stand slack-jawed at the sight.
‘This is where you say your goodbyes,’ Harker had said to Whitley and Drew. Again, the boys had parted company with a few brief words.
‘Come find me, Whitley,’ he’d said to the apprentice. ‘Speak for me to your father, if you think it might help?’
The other boy had nodded vigorously as he too was led away by two of their guards, along with Chancer and the injured Hogan. Harker had gone on to mention that the scout was being taken to the temple. Herbalists there would see to his festering wound and try to draw the toxins from him. If it wasn’t already too late.
The remaining soldiers had led Drew to one of the Great Trees. When they’d neared it, he’d seen that the bark was blackened and the trunk seemed wizened, twisting one way and then the other. Pockmarking its entire length as it twisted up into the sky were windows. It must have been hollowed to allow passage through the trunk and up, Drew had mused. As he’d pondered this, he had been led up to a huge gate that stood open, lights from the carved hall beyond illuminating his path. When they’d passed through, Drew had noticed a great sign carved above the door, the black bark revealing white lettering beneath: GARRISON.
Harker had taken a moment to speak with his superior officer, who had come out to meet them. This fellow had worn black leather armour with a silver tree emblazoned on the breastplate. The two men had spoken for a few moments. There had been much muttering and glancing his way, before finally Harker had come back to Drew, leading the boy towards the armoured man. The officer called out, and from a nearby guardroom two more black-suited guards had entered the hall.
Harker had patted Drew on the back. ‘Lad, it’s been my pleasure to bring you here – I wanted you to know that. I’ll check in on you, you have my word, and I’ll watch with interest how things play out for you. Don’t look so frightened, boy. We ain’t Wyldermen here.’ He’d leaned in close at the last. ‘This is for your own good.’ The guards had taken him by the manacles and led him up a flight of stairs, Harker staying to watch on as the boy was led out of sight.
They had taken him to the room in which he now resided, thinking about what fate awaited him. He’d felt exhausted, having hardly slept. He hadn’t been used to sleeping on a bed, for starters, the hard boards being ‘too straight’ if there was such a complaint. He’d slept on the floor, using Whitley’s cloak as a blanket. When the first rays of sunlight had drifted through the barred window, he’d risen and paced the chamber, itching to be free from his confinement. The door to the room was a heavy timber affair, strapped with metal for reinforcement. It was firmly locked. A small shuttered window sat in the centre of it. He’d called for a guard, but nobody had come. That had been hours ago.
Standing on the bunk he peered out of the barred window. He could see the ground below beyond the tree-trunk walls of his cell, some fifteen feet down. It must have been nearing noon as he looked at the city of Brackenholme. In daylight it was even more remarkable. The streets immediately around the Garrison Tree seemed quiet, with little traffic to speak of, but back down towards what he figured was the Dymling Road he could see there were crowds bustling. The shouts of shopkeepers and stallholders told him there was a market on, and the smells that drifted up to his windows were intoxicating: pastries, meats, cheeses, all manner of foodstuffs. His mouth watered. He hadn’t eaten since his arrival.
Drew could clearly spot the green capes of the City Watch mingling freely and chatting with the traders and citizens of Brackenholme. He also noted that there were other soldiers present, though their uniform was unfamiliar: breastplates that bore the image of a rampant lion and floor-length red cloaks. They were gathered outside the doors to a tavern, having spilled out from within, mugs in hand, bringing their merry-making to the street. Travellers on the Dymling Road gave the soldiers a wide berth, as they lurched into one another, singing and laughing boisterously. It surprised Drew that the men still wore their uniforms off-duty and, judging by the reaction of the men of the City Watch who looked on with disapproval, he wasn’t alone.
From this vantage point he could also see the largest of the city’s five Great Trees. It was maybe three or four hundred feet tall, with huge branches that spread out over the rest of the city, keeping vast districts in its shade. Within the boughs at the heart of the tree, sitting atop the central column of the trunk, a huge hall had been built, and even from this distance he could make out signs of activity up there. No doubt the home of Duke Bergan, he reasoned.
A key turned in the door. Drew jumped back from the window and dropped to the floor. The lock went quiet for a moment and Drew stared towards it expectantly before the door swung open.
The man who stepped in dwarfed Drew. He was at least six foot four with a full head of thick red hair that tumbled over his face, and a long beard to match. His clothes consisted of a brown leather vest and hemp trousers tucked into heavy boots. Unless you counted the knife and fork that sat on the tray of food that he brought with him, he had no visible weapons. Moving the tray to one hand while closing the door carefully behind him, he then clattered it on to the small table, before moving to sit on the bunk. Drew heard keys moving in the lock onc
e more, as someone in the corridor secured the door. The heavy clunk set his nerves on edge.
‘Eat,’ was all the visitor said.
Drew needed no more instruction, moving to the table swiftly and setting into the meal: boiled ham, new potatoes, carrots and a large hunk of bread that was slathered in butter. Drew devoured it quickly, hungrily, not pausing to use the knife or fork. All the while he kept an eye on the man, darting glances his way as he watched on. He was probably in his fifth decade – on closer inspection his hair was peppered with grey streaks. While one heavy hand rested idly in his lap, the other played with his beard, his fat thumb twining in and out of the thick hair.
Drew licked his fingers and then licked the plate, polishing off every last scrap. ‘So you’re my jailer, then?’ he asked, instinctively stepping back from the table to lean against the wall of his cell. With something solid behind him and the stranger in front Drew was as safe as he could feel under the circumstances. The man carried himself with a confidence and authority that he wouldn’t have expected to find in a jailer, so Drew could only assume his experience was vast and well respected, perhaps due to unscrupulous tactics.
‘You could say that, I suppose,’ said the man after surveying the youth long and hard from beneath his bushy brow.
A chorus of shouting outdoors caught their attention, and the big man strode past Drew and up to the window. Drew stepped to one side as the jailer looked out through the bars, then he hopped back on to the low bunk so he too could see outside.
An altercation between a stallholder and a trio of red-cloaked soldiers had taken place, and tempers had flared. The stall sold cooked meats, and the youthful owner was shouting angrily as two of the soldiers held him back. The third soldier chortled as he chewed contentedly on a freshly cooked drumstick, before throwing the stripped bone at the young vendor. As they released him, he took a swing at one of them, resulting in a flurry of blows from all three as they threw him back into his stall. With a crash the stall collapsed in on itself, the meats and sausages showering the stallholder as everything came down. All the while the men of the City Watch looked on nearby, but did nothing.
Rise of the Wolf Page 7